He Rides the Short Boat

It is a sad, sad moment for those who claim cultural progression when we collectively realize that a barely literate boatdouche with bramble tatts is sitting on a boat with four of the most sparkling examples of crystalline femininity this side of a naughty librarian convention.

These four bouncing beauties of boobie hottie suckle thigh are so hot, they reject death as a trope. They inspire angels to rend fabric and cry out in tongues. Their butts do not poo, they produce buttery cocoa cremes gift-wrapped in glittery sparkle paper.